


Alternatives

by a_big_apple



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Dreams, Gen, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2018-08-09 01:12:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7781149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/pseuds/a_big_apple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for fma_fic_contest prompt 101: Masks.  Al just wants to be where his brother is, in every universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alternatives

Alphonse isn’t sure what to make of the house his brother shared with Alfons Heiderich, a boy he’d dreamed himself into the body of without knowing it, who he’d only seen once in the flash of a mirror and then lying dead on the floor on the other side of the Gate.  He isn’t sure what to make of the bed his brother had shared with the now-dead boy, another Al but not quite, not blood.  He isn’t sure what to make of his brother’s apparent habit of liquor as a sleep aid, but he isn’t about to argue when Ed looks so drained, the new automail hurting him a little and too many deaths weighing him down.  Now his brother is asleep, still in his clothes; Al pulls his shoes off, tugs the band from his hair, and when Ed still doesn’t stir Al unbuttons the brown vest and maneuvers him out of it before pulling the blanket up and tucking him in.  
  
Alphonse isn’t sure what to make of this whole world, this life his brother lived without him.  He has his memories back now, has two sets of years—one with his brother and no body, one with his body but without Ed.  He’s not sure if he’s still the Al his brother remembers; the memories of the armor are like sugar or salt, poured into the water of his mind and slowly dissolving, and something new will come of it at the end.  His brother is taller, older, changed, and nothing is familiar.  
  
Except there, on the desk, Al’s head.  His armor head.  Not the same one it used to be, but it _looks_ the same, and he knows it must be the one he transferred his soul into when he was back in Liore.  He understands now the note of dejection in his brother’s voice when he asked why Al was back in that armor.  
  
The helmet stares at the room, empty-eyed, as though it’s watching his brother sleep.  Maybe that’s exactly how Ed wants it—the closest thing to Al’s presence he could muster—and that warms Al’s cold insides a little.  Still, it’s eerie, like looking in a mirror but not, so he turns away, kicks off his own shoes and his brother’s old coat, pulls his hair from its ponytail.  Ed is out like a light, just sighs in a gust of alcohol breath when Al shoves him gently onto his side, slides in beneath the thin blanket, presses his nose into Ed’s hair.    
  
His brother is warm, alive, _here_.  Alphonse isn’t sure what to make of anything, except that warmth.  He’s been searching for it through two sets of adolescences; in the end, it’s all he needs.  He matches his breath to the rhythm of Ed’s, lets it guide him into sleep.    
  
His first dreams in this new world bring with them flashes from the Gate, another place, another life.  His back is to the armor mask, but he feels its gaze anyway.  
  
***  
 __  
He is delighted when his brother shows him where his old head wound up; that helmet and faceplate never had as much life in them as they do now, and Al’s briefly glad he hasn’t managed to get a cat yet that would threaten the tiny hatchlings.  It’s just as good a use as melting it down for automail, and somehow it’s comforting that a piece of him is left as it was before, and remains useful.  He was determined, sure, but watching the armor melt and the blood seal disappear was more frightening than he’d imagined.  His body was still new, still weaker than he’d like; he’d grown used to the crutch, was getting stronger, but he felt small.  Had it really been so bad, being huge and imposing?  Being able to protect people, protect Ed, with sheer size and impenetrablility?  
  
Ed sat there and watched right by his side, and that was strange too—not that his brother knew what he was thinking, and stayed with him, but that he seemed so much bigger than he used to.  He looked grown, he was taller than Al even if it was just by a hair, he was fit and strong and healthy and all the things Al would be in time, but wasn’t yet.    
  
Now he looks from the nest in the helmet, hidden in the grass, to his brother’s grinning face, and feels a little like the birds.  He knows Ed worries about him, but just the minimum; he lets Al struggle, lets him work his muscles hard, lets him trip and fall and get back up himself, but never strays far.  Ed is solid and everpresent, and he claps Al on the shoulder with a flesh right hand.  
  
The warmth of the touch seeps through his shirt, and it’s enough. Like the hatchlings sheltered in the empty steel, Al is growing into his wings; soon he’ll be ready to fly.  
  
***  
  
He wakes with the scent of a Resembool spring in his nose and a steel elbow shoved uncomfortably into his ribs; the dream scatters like birds frightened from their roost.  Alphonse shifts, worms away from his brother’s prodding automail, catches sight of the helmet watching him from its place on the desk.  Blearily he rises, pads the few feet across the room, turns the steel head on its side.  It’s empty—of course it is.  His brother mutters in his sleep, rolls over, reaches out.  Alphonse can’t really be sure which “Al” Ed’s murmur means, which boy he’s reaching for, but finds he’s too tired to care; he crawls back into bed, lets Ed nuzzle into his shoulder like a sleepy dog, heaves a sigh as a cool metal arm pins him under its weight.  There is nowhere in any world he’d rather be.  
  
He sleeps again, and this time doesn’t dream.


End file.
